City Flight
by Chris St Thomas
Summary: Prologue to a series of stories in spired by Batman Year One, The Dark Knight Returns, and Batman Begins. Parker rescues kidnap victims before an out of control SWAT team. CHAP FOUR IS A MAJOR OVERHAUL OF CHAP TWO. COMPARE AND LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS
1. Dreary Rain

_The Reporter_

_Darn dreary rain. The world-weary, jaded crime reporter sits in the front seat of his car watching rain drops splatter on his windshield. Does he wait, with his press pass in the band of his fedora, his camera in the pocket of his trench coat, his certified hard-boiled crime reporter credentials right next to his passport, does he wait with all of this for the last plane in from Casablanca? Nay, he waits for the debutantes' planning committee, the junior league or something equally pointless to come out of a reception._

_The gossip columnist should be here covering this dinner reception. But she's away on holiday, and Paul from sports "pinch hit" for her last night. So, tonight it's my turn. But that doesn't mean I have to like it_.

_I don't care if the Mayor, the Commissioner, and local captains of industry are here in this upscale, but not exclusive, residential neighborhood. There's still nothing here worth the time of this reporter, this world-weary, jaded cynic._ Hey! Wait a minute; that is the Commissioner's car. _There is something here worth my time. Let's hook up Mr. Telephoto lens and see what we can see. _

I scan the cars parked on the street in front of the brownstone, copying down the license plates into my padd. I place the headset around my left ear and ask the padd to get me O'Kelly at the paper. I continue scribbling down plates while the padd connects me. It knows my scribbling well and translates all the plate numbers into neat san serif capitals. "Hey, lady, it'sh me, y'shee."

"Oh, Thompson, it's you isn't it?"

"Yeah, shee."

"What is it with you and that Al Capone/ Dick Tracy gangster bit?"

"Ya know ya loves it, Baby."

"Yeah, actually, I don't hate it."

"I got shome platesh for ya, Hon. I'm shendin''em to ya right now, shee." I keyed a couple of icons with my stylus and my padd began to transfer the plate numbers to O'Kelly's padd

"I'll run them for you in a bit. I'm on important intrepid reporter business right now."

"Tanks, Hon. You're a doll. HOLY CRAP!" Something catches my eye up near the roof and shocks me right out of character.

"What have you got out there, Jack?"

"Some guys in black with automatic weapons and ski masks pulled over their faces. They're dancing up the fire escapes, pirouetting and twirling their arms like they're drunk, stoned or nuts. Or worse yet, they may be all three."

_Okay, now it's officially worth my time_. "Seriously, Carrie, I need a favour."

"I'd do anything for you, Jackie. You know that."

"Find out which SWAT team is on duty tonight."

"Aren't you the one with connections at One Police Plaza?"

"Yeah, that's me, the world-weary, jaded crime reporter and all that."

"So, why are you asking me to..."

"In case I forget or get distracted. Gotta, go." I rang off. And told my padd to call a cop I trusted to handle this right: Captain Carlisle.

"This is the Carlisles' refrigerator, the answering machine ran off with the toaster, so leave a message and I'll write it down and stick it to myself with one of those little magnet thingees. Beeeep!"

"Carlisle, pick up the phone! It's Thompson, and have I got one for you! I'm serious, man. Pick up."

"It's me Jack. I just get such a kick out of listening to you go off like that. What's up?"

"Are you out on the town with your lovely wife?"

"No, we're enjoying a quiet evening at home. The kids are out on a sleep over. We've cooked dinner together and eaten. We've been talking for two hours."

"I hate to pass you one on your night off with your wife, but you're the one I trust to handle it."

"Why didn't you just call 9-1-1 like a normal concerned citizen?"

"Because I can't remember the number and besides, I have you on speed dial, it would be like two extra key punches to dial 9-1-1 and you know how lazy a jaded, world weary crime reporter can be."

"No. I want the real reason, because dinner and dessert are long over and my darling wife is standing in the door way holding a spray can of whipped cream in one hand a bowl of cherries in the other and right now she's mouthing who…on…earth…is…that…on…the…phone."

"Oh, man well hurry up. Cause I've got I've got three certifiable nutcases breaking and entering at corner of 123d Street and Maple."

"So?"

"So? So, I'm vamping while O'Kelly down at the paper ran the plates for me. "They're heavily armed, and highly stoned nutcases."

"And what makes this my problem?"

Here come the makes on the license plates, right up on the screen of my padd. Carrie's the best. "They're breaking into the brownstone where the Commissioner, the Mayor, and some local barons of industry are having dinner. And I don't know which SWAT Team is on duty tonight, but if it's Kragen's Commandos, you and I both know that this isn't going to end well."

"It's not the Commissioner, Jack. She's out of town at a forensics convention with the director of the Crime Lab. It's her family."

"You mean the kids, too?"

"And the Mayor's wife and kids are there, too, along with everyone else's."

"Oh man. Carlisle, you've got to get your team over here and take care of this. And find out which SWAT team is on duty tonight."

"I'll be there."

I rang off and told my padd to get me get me Police Dispatch. "Yeah, hi, it's Jack Thompson calling for Sergeant Merkel. Thanks."

"Merkel."

"Hey man. Quick question for you..."I said. "Which SWAT team is on duty tonight?"

"Team Two is on watch. Kragen's Commandos, why?"

"Don't you read my columns in the paper?"

"Jaaack! What's going on out there?"

"Not to worry, Sergeant. There's nobody here but us chickens. And keep Kragen and his jackbooted Shock Troops out of it as long as you can, okay?"

"Tell me what it is, John Charles Thompson."

"Even my mother doesn't call me that. Read my column tomorrow. Goodbye."

I called O'Kelly again. When she answered, I gushed out like fast flowing river, not letting her get a word in edgewise. "Look, Carrie, don't deny it. I know you ran with the Bat for the last several months. What kind of a reporter would I be if I didn't know that?"

"Bruce is dead. You covered his funeral. I was there. Why don't you just call the cops."

"I did. I called Tommy Carlisle. But he might have to call in the SWAT Team and Kragen's Commandos are on duty tonight."

"I know."

"So, you call one of Them for me: The Amazon, the Space Cop, the Fast guy, the Canary."

"Don't you know their Code Names?"

"I guess; I can't think of them now, besides there're copyright issues to contend with."

"Oh, right copyright issues on a phone call, what do you think this is, the Truman Show?"

"Look, can you get in touch with one of them, or not?"

"They're all out of town. Way out of town. I think I heard Parker was around...I'll work on it."

"Parker? Who Parker? Spider-Man is a cartoon character, O'Kelly. What are you talking about?"

"One of Mr. Wayne's protégés. Parker. I don't know the rest of his name. But he's good: Helicopter pilot, three urban combat tours in the Terrorism War, plenty of hostage rescues. He's solid U.S. Army Special Forces, not some crazy Delta loon. And he's your damn cousin. You know his name."

"Oh, that Parker, I wasn't sure which one you meant. Thanks O'Kelly, remember I'm buying your first martini when you turn twenty-one.

"Shaken, not stirred."

"Alright, get to it. I've got cop cars pulling up here."


	2. Intervention

City Flight

by Chris St. Thomas

Prologue to a series of stories inspired by Batman Year One and The Dark Knight Returns.

A light, friendly rain fell through the trees into Prospect Park, pattering softly on the surface of the pond. In the distance a creek meandered along, adding its waters as well. I call it a friendly rain. It probably was friendly down at street level in Prospect Park, with a nice view of the rising moon across the pond, City skyline in the background. Down there I'm sure it was all quite picturesque. Perhaps it was even romantic. A walk through the weeping willows in the moonlight with a warm mug of spiced cider, that's what Lauren and I would have done this evening. But we weren't there.

Instead, I was up around seventy-three floors above the street. Even from here the views might have been romantic. A gentle salt breeze blowing in over the bay, the poets say you can see infinity between the flat surface of the sea and low cloud cover, especially with a large moon rising. Standing on the terrace, with a large mug of good coffee, smelling Lauren's perfume, enjoying her smile, her company…that, too, would be romantic. If only …

The rain wasn't so friendly where I was just then, and neither were the gusts of wind slashing that rain across my face. That gentle breeze, the one caressing the lovers faces over there on the Terrace, wanted to grab my ultra light aircraft and smack me up against one of those steel and glass spires that reach so romantically for the heavens. Time had come to focus on finding the brownstone across from the parking garage and setting this bird down.

A dramatic entrance may be priceless, but it's only dramatic if you're alive to walk away from it. Smacked against the side of a sky scraper or plastered on the top floor of a parking garage, it becomes a tragic exit. And that was definitely not what I needed that night. Not at all.

Game on. Call the ball, Maverick. I said to myself. I toggled a switch and listened to my police scanner. I told it to search bands. I heard a patrol team going on break, a traffic unit pursuing a speeder, then finally a call with an appropriate note of urgency "Dispatch, this is Two William Fifteen at the corner of Maple Avenue and 123rd Street with the Commissioner's family." I told the scanner to stop. "Which SWAT team is on duty tonight?" The reply indicated team two. "Kragen's Commandos," Two William Fifteen said. "Holy moley, I don't know which is worse: the babbling, drug addled nutcases holding the hostages or Kragen's SWAT Unit"

"I heard that Two William Fifteen," cut in a voice that must have been Kragen's. "We're rolling." That gave me fifteen minutes. I call the ball.

I told my watch to give me a count down and adjusted my goggles and visor, canting my head against the wind to get a good view of the streets. This Kragen guy and his SWAT unit must have been the reason the Commissioner had called. I panned left and right, searching for the brownstone. Then I picked out flashing lights…in front of a brownstone…across from a parking garage. Leave it to the strobe-like reds and blues of the City's Finest forming a perimeter to be my runway lights, to guide me in.

I pulled on the rudder, pushed pedals and yanked my craft around into an approach. I made one pass over the scene just as the moon was peeking out through the clouds. Old timers saw the shadow and looked up in hope and fear, but they knew he was dead. I fancied I could hear some applause as I forced my craft into a hundred and eighty degree turn and set down on top of that parking garage. My watch informed me that ten minutes remained. I fancied the applause was for the image I cut across the night sky. It could just as easily have been for my barnstormers' antics.

Unbuckling my harness, I grabbed my satchel and climbed up out of the sling chair. I strode across the top floor of the parking garage to the rail, looked out across the street. Left, right and center, I scanned the street below. From the left, a handful of uniformed and plainclothes officers hustled with wooden saw horses and yellow police line tape setting up a cordon. From the right, the first of the TV news vans pulled up: News Channel One. In the center, a plain clothes officer furrowed his brow listening to his ear piece and barking orders into a walkie-talkie, while uniformed officers brought the residents of the brownstone out onto the stoops and hustled them up the street. The cops were getting as many civilians as they could out of the way and keeping the cameras at a distance so that they could do their jobs.

I checked my gear: gas powered magnetic grapple gun with three hundred ninety pound test monofilament and deceleration cable, Kevlar lined flight suit, blow gun with knockout darts, silly string, night vision scope with zoom lens and thermal imaging, explosive powders, smoke-flash vials, police scanner. None of it had moved and exactly that much was right with the world.

Two William Fifteen came on again and confirmed three hostage-takers and SWAT on the way. I now had just nine minutes. I had to get the hostages out before the SWAT guys showed up and made mess of things all over the Eleven O'clock News.

I scanned, zoomed and thermaled with my scope: hostages and bad guys were all in the front room of the right-side, second floor apartment. I anchored one end of my monofilament and fired the other across the street and down two stories; it hooked around a tree limb right above the window.

I pulled off one of my belts, hooked it over the line and took it in both hands. I slid down across the street, over the heads of cops, reporters and onlookers, down to the tree branch, and my momentum carried me the last couple of feet down through the windows.

Breaking glass makes for a dramatic entrance, too. I hit the floor, rolled, and tossed some explosive powders at the floor; the flash and bang would disorient everyone in the room. I crouched down. Gunshots etched across the wall next to me and zinged over my head out through the window. I flipped out my blow gun. Pop, pop, pop. Thud, thud, thunk. Three darts blown; three bad guys passed out on the floor.

Police Commissioner Ellen Yendle's husband was slumped against a wall bleeding, going into shock. He'd evidently tried to be a hero. Their son had rendered first aid like a good Boy Scout. Now he was just comforting his sister. I scooped up the kids and carried them back to the window. I kicked out the remaining glass. A grapple fired up into the upper reaches of the fire escapes, I hooked the gun to my belt. I picked up the kids and leaped out the window. The deceleration cable slowed us over the two story drop. Plain clothes officers took the children. While the plain cloths officers shouted at me and uniforms leveled and aimed their weapons at me, I flipped the rewind switch on the grapple gun and zipped back up into the air.

The cable wound back, hauling me up to the second floor apartment. Dashing over to the Commissioner's husband, I picked him up in a fireman's carry and leaped back out the window. The deceleration cable again slowed us and set us jarringly, yet safely on the ground. I unhooked the cable from my belt, called out for a medic and looked about for an ambulance. E.M.T.s rushed up with a stretcher and carted Mr. Yendle away to treat his gunshot wound.

Amid a chorus of cops shouting "Freeze!" and "Don't move!", over a clatter of safety catches unlatched, hammers cocked on revolvers and slides jacked back on automatics, I slowly raised my hands, palms open and presented them for cuffing. No good deed goes unpunished. Suddenly, the doors on the SWAT van burst open and that elite team began to deploy out in two columns, setting shields, moving up, covering each other with overlapping fields of fire.

The police captain who was the incident commander came over and called out very loudly in a command voice, "Officers and Detectives, stand down here. The perps are up there," he pointed up toward the shattered window. "And get those cameras out of here." The Captain and I locked eyes. We nodded understanding and some uniforms dashed off to push the press back. Perhaps I had an ally here. Looking up, I raised my right arm and lowered my left: One hand firing the grapple up to the top of the parking garage while the other smashed a glass vial on the ground that clashed, flashed and billowed out a nice cloud of smoke. And then the grapple nearly yanked my shoulder out of its socket as it hauled me back up to my ultra light. A dramatic exit is almost as important as the entrance.


	3. Bank Heist? Game On!

Bank Robbery

_This is in fact the third story in the series. It works fine as a stand alone as well_

I stepped off the A-Line at 32d Avenue Station, walked through the turnstiles, up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, I looked across the street at sun-drenched Prospect Park. I also saw a moderately beat up, four-door Oldsmobile Alero drove down the street just a bit too slowly. Noting the driver and four passengers in the Alero, I wondered why Ethel commuted all the way over here for her banking. I glanced up and down the street without seeing a sign for the bank name my elderly neighbor had given me. This was the route Ethel said she used. So where was the bank?

I pulled out the directions she had given me. They referred to landmarks that had been rebuilt and streets that had changed names, but she had assured me that the A-line's 32d Avenue Station would be just down the street from her bank.

I stopped a couple of passers-by, asked a hotdog vendor and finally figured out where it was. I set off in that direction briskly; I didn't want to be late for our eleven-fifteen appointment.

On the way there I noticed the same beat up, four-door Oldsmobile Alero drive by twice more. The first time it passed me from the front, the second from behind. I got a look at driver and passengers: identical sunglasses, identical short brown haircuts, and very dark raincoats. One was fat, one had a facial tick, and the driver looked cool, calm and collected. I didn't get a good look at the fourth.

Somehow I wasn't surprised to see it parked across the street from Ethel's bank when I approached it. I saw her standing under the bank's awning smoking a cigarette. I looked at my watch and she looked at hers. "Parker, honey, do you mind if I finish my cigarette, first?" she asked.

"Not really. I wish you wouldn't smoke them though, Aunt Ethel. They cause cancer, you know."

"Not these, sweetheart."

"Oh?"

"Herbal with ginseng. No nicotine, no tar, no THC, even high in B-vitamins."

"Really. A healthy cigarette. Why didn't anyone market those years ago?" I mused.

She stubbed it out on the lid of a trash pail next to the cash machine and dropped it in.

As we walked inside I glanced at my padd to see the time: 11:14. Ethel led me over to a desk and introduced me to the banker there. The banker smiled and apologized. We would have to wait a few minutes. Would we like to sign in and take a seat, have a complementary cup of spring water or coffee? Ethel opened her purse and took out her antique Zippo lighter and began to fiddle with it the way she did when she was tense. Ethel protested that an 11:15 appointment should mean 11:15. The banker smiled and went back to her paperwork. I wondered why she was using actual paper in this age of automated forms, PDAs, and electronic signature capture pads. I noticed her trashcan filled with papers.

Turning my back on the banker, I picked up a ceramic coffee mug and drew myself some "spring" water from the cooler. I lifted the carafe to pour a coffee for Ethel, but she said she was going outside for another smoke and would I come get her when the banker lady called for us?

I nodded and said that I would. I saw that she had left her Zippo on the magazine table next to the chairs. I pocketed it. I glanced around the bank one more time as I prepared to sit down: Tellers, customers, bankers and loan officers and a floor manager sorting the customers efficiently. It was a model operation. Then from behind me I heard a sound that was out of place.

I heard the sound of the dead bolt being turned and locked in the front doors in the middle of the day. The bank manager was in plain sight at the end of the line of customers. I saw her face darken. I looked up at a clock on the wall - 11:21. I heard the footsteps of four people behind me. I casually picked up a magazine and leaned against to the column next to the water cooler leafing through it. Glancing up, I saw the four guys from beat up Olds: Twitch, Skinny, Mr. Cool and the other guy who now had a bead of sweat running down his forehead and an extremely nervous look about him.

"Alright everybody, face down on the floor! Do it! Do it now!" I heard the sounds of four shot guns getting pumped. "We're not here for your money. Your money is insured by the government. We're here for the bank's money and that's not worth dying for. Is it? So all of you, even you Mr. Security Guard, face down on the floor."

One of the old ladies standing in line clutched her chest and collapsed. Nerves turned to the other henchmen. "Don't say anything." He hissed under his breath. "We follow the plan." He pointed at Cool, "Vault." He pointed at Twitch, "Tellers."

"Hey, Dude, I thought I was Tellers and he was vault."

"Just do what I told you."

"Okay, okay, I'm just sayin'." Cool walked over to the Manager and gestured with his shotgun. Twitch made his way over to the tellers and vaulted over the counter, getting stuck halfway. One of the tellers pulled him over.

"Wha-, Wha-, What about, what about the lady who collapsed?" asked Skinny.

"You just help me control the crowd out here."

"Excuse me, Mr. Bank Robber in Charge, - -" said one of the bank employees or customers. I couldn't tell. I was being a good little hostage face down on the floor. Just hoping this mess would end. Soon. I heard a rapping on the glass of the front doors. That would be Ethel done with her smoke, rapping on the door with her cane wanting to get back in. Bless Heaven that she's out there and not in here.

"You bet I'm in charge. I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Excuse me, I know CPR. I used to be a paramedic. Can I help the lady who collapsed?"

"No. Just stay where you are." Nerves looked at his watch. He was beginning to lose control and he knew it. "Hey, up there with the tellers, how's it going?"

"I've got four cash drawers, there's eight more to go."

"Boss," said Skinny. "Shouldn't we let the lady on the floor get some help. If, if, if she dies…"

"Stick with the plan."

"This is going like the br-, br-, brokerage."

"How was I supposed to know there weren't no stock certificates in a stock broker's office?"

"Boss, we should let her get help befffff, befffff, before she dies."

"I'll show you dead." Twitch pulled his revolver and put three rounds in Skinny's chest.

That's it. Game on. Blow darts won't work well from the floor. So what do I have? Ethel's Zippo and a coffee mug full of water. I lifted the mug slightly. Make that a coffee mug almost empty of water. With my hand and forearm I zinged the mug across the room and smashed it against the opposite wall.

Nerves turned and looked and began yelling at people on that side of the room.

I rolled across from the column to the deck, lit the Zippo and tossed it into the trashcan next to Ethel's banker's desk. It clattered into the bottom. That wasn't the soft puff of Zippo landing in papers I had expected. The banker must have emptied it while I was waiting. When had she had time for that?

Twitch yelled from the teller line and Nerves turned that way. I rose up off the deck into a crouch behind the desk, shoving some papers into the trashcan and grabbing a letter opener with a sturdy wooden handle and hit the deck again.

I heard the lick of flames in the waste pail and smelled smoke. I counted seconds until the smoke alarm went off.

Nerves and Twitch stopped yelling and looked at each other. Twitch hefted his bag over the Teller counter and climbed over after it.

Nerves screamed about the fire and Twitch tried to knock the cooler over into the burning waste basket but it just wobbled, dumped over and rolled along the floor spilling water all over the place.

"Who knows where the fire extinguisher is?" Nerves called in a really loud, shrill and oddly detached voice.

I looked over at the banker with whom Ethel had set the appointment and smiled. She raised her hand. "I do, Mr. Bank-robber-in-Charge. I know where it is."

"Okay, get it." Nerves came over and she slowly got up off the floor. Nerves followed her with the shotgun in her back while she picked up the fire extinguisher and carried it over to her wastebasket.

She began fiddling with the pull pin. "I can't do it." she wept.

"You there! On the floor, next to the desk!"

"Me?" I said raising my hand.

"Yes, you! Use the extinguisher!"

"Yessir."

I stood timidly and fiddled with the pin, trying to look clumsy. Nerves made an annoyed grunt. Then I jerked out the pin and sprayed Nerves in the face. He dropped his shotgun and a grabbed his face, groaning. Twitch pointed his weapon at me. I juked to one side. He moved his weapon that way and I smacked him upside the head with the fire extinguisher. Twitch dropped to his knees and collapsed on the floor. I scooped up their weapons and called to the guard. "Hey, Wackenhut! Cuff these guys, secure their weapons."

"Aye, aye, Skipper."

I turned to the banker who had just pulled the fire extinguisher stunt with me. She was still unnerved. I touched her forearm and smiled. "This, too, shall pass." I said. "Everything will work out okay. Just give it a few more minutes." She smiled. I asked, "Can you call 9-1-1 for us?" She nodded. "Good. Thank you. Ask for police officers and the rescue squad." Then she picked up the phone and dialed.

I turned to take care of the collapsed lady and the shot bank robber. Gently, I called out, "Who wanted to help the lady that collapsed on the floor."

A hand went up, "I did," said an otherwise youthful woman with crow's feet around her eyes.

"Okay, you help the collapsed lady and the guy who got shot. See if anyone one else knows CPR or first aid. Someone in here must have been a Girl Scout or Boy Scout."

I looked at the clock - 11:28. The one who went to the vault should be coming back soon. I crossed the lobby to the door leading back to the vault. The letter opener I had appropriated didn't feel like much in my hand, but it would do. I didn't want to try the coffee pot trick and end up scalding the guy. A letter opener to the deltoid muscle in the shoulder would hurt like blazes but heal eventually. I took up a position next to the door where I could see Mr. Cool when he emerged.

I heard the frazzled bank manager from the corridor first. I leaned forward slightly on the balls of my feet and set my arms into a loose martial arts fighting stance. When the bank manager came out first, I saw the shot gun in her back and quickly kicked it out of Mr. Cool's hands. "Cops are on the way. The rest of your crew is down. Will you come quietly, or do I have to put this letter opener into your shoulder?"

Mr. Cool dropped his duffel of cash and put his hands behind his head. "No worries, bra."

The security guard took custody of Mr. Cool, cuffed him and stacked his weapon along with the other weapons away from everyone. The bank manager and some of the former Scouts and other good Samaritans were giving CPR and first aid to the injured and dying as well as providing aid and comfort to the other frightened folks. Things were under control inside. A crowd was gathering outside the locked front doors, including an impatient and frustrated Ethel. I pointed this out to the lobby manager who got one of the other leaders to go out and apologize to the customers out there and assure them they could be taken care of at other branches.

I slipped out along with the manager and spirited Ethel away setting an appointment with her for another day.


	4. INTERVENTION OVERHAUL

copyright 2007 by chris st thomas

Inspired by Frank Miller and Christopher Nolan. Characters are my own or used ficticiously.

Compare this one to the old one and let me know what you think, eh?

City Flight Overhaul

The Musician

_I'm sitting 98 floors up at a table on The Terrace. Looking out over a superb view of the bay, I'm writing a song. I can almost see infinity out there at the horizon where the sea meets the sky and the moon rises above the waters, reflecting off both the ocean and the clouds. I'm drinking a cup of the best espresso in the City, and I feel inspired._ _In just two hours, I've written the chorus, two verses, and part of a third verse, but I'm not sure about this bridge yet. Is it finished or does it need more, more... what? Twirling the stylus, I run the melody back through my head again as I look back over the - -_ A phone call pops up in the center of my notebook's screen.

Caller-ID says it's from the _Herald_.

Who do I know at the paper?

I don't accept the call.

_I touch the stylus to the screen and the lyrics jump back to the foreground. I key the midi software to play the melody for me again. _Phone call pops back up, from the same number at the paper. I let it go, and run the melody and counter melody together. _Yeah, the bridge needs another line; it isn't fin - -_Same call pops up a third time. I'm about to block the number when my gut tells me to accept it.

I tell the notebook to put the call through.

"Oracle Condition, Parker, I've got one for you. And why did you make me call you not once, not twice, but thrice??" There's a voice I'm not expecting to hear. Carrie Kelley.

"I'm trying to write a song here, Carrie," I say. I start to ask if it can wait, but she's already giving me the assignment.

"Hostages at--" she plows right on.

"Whoa." I cut her off. "Hold on just one moment there Miss Kelly, let me put on my ear piece, so that the whole Terrace doesn't have to hear this." I mute the call, unzip a pocket, pull out my phone ear piece and fit it to my left ear. "Okay, that's better. Where were we?"

She tells me, "There're hostages at 126th Street and Maple Ave."

"What has that to do with me?" I ask her. "I'm writing a song, Carrie. I've got the tune, the chorus, some verses and I'm working on a bridge. I'm a musician now." I insist. "I'm not on of the Bats anymore." I declare, but my heart is, well listening.

"The Mayor and the Commissioner- -"

"Good, then let the police handle it."

"Parker, Kragen's Commandos are the SWAT unit on duty." She plays a trump card. She knows I don't like Kragen's Commandos anymore than Wayne did when he was alive.

"That doesn't sound good." She's got me. She knows it. I just haven't quite realized it yet.

"Mr. Wayne used to call them 'the jack-booted Gestapo squad.'" She knows she's got me, I can hear it in her voice.

"I still don't see what this has to do with me." I'm trying to dodge, but I'm not putting up much of a fight.

"You're Special Forces. You do this stuff." She's playing the duty card now.

"I told you, Carrie. I'm a musician now. I'm trying to move one from that." I'm just running the dance out to it's natural conclusion.

"Do you have a parachute and tranquilizer darts there with you?" She knows me as well as I know myself, but how?

"Er, yes…I've hardly met you more than twice, Carrie. How do you know that?" How indeed.

"I worked for Mr. Wayne, remember. And he talked about you. He used to reminisce about Miss Kyle and the son he raised and the son he lost."

Which son was I? Did I say that out loud?

"If you're still carrying blow darts and a parachute, how far on can you have you moved?"

"The parachute is for base jumping and the darts are for personal defense, far less clumsy and random than firearms."

"If you say so, Parker."

"I'm a musician who enjoys extreme sports, and - - hold on a second." _There goes that jerk at the bar again, the nerve of some people. Why can't he just take no for an answer and move on to the next one? Isn't there someone for everyone?_ My hand brushed against the zipper pocket where I stow my blow dart set. Ee-gads. I can think of too many ways this ends in a bad scene. _Nothing to see here people, I'm just a musician writing a song._ I start to close my notebook to get up and warn the girl. Then an observant bartender swaps out her drink for a fresh one, and two very large men dressed in entirely in black approach the jerk.

"What just happened over there?" Carrie demands in my ear piece. "I'm trying to talk to you."

"Over at the bar, some guy who's been chatting up a nice looking redhead just poured something in her drink while she stepped away." There were gasps in the background and a muffled thump that sounded remarkably like someone falling off of a barstool, _but who can say_? "The nerve of some people."

"Nothing to see here folks, the gentleman was just leaving anyway," the barman says.

"So you just knocked the jerk out from across the room?" she's goading me, toying with me. "I thought you said the darts were for personal defense, less clumsy and random than guns and all that."

"Exactly. That's why I waited a moment assessing the situation, and an observant bartender took care of the drink and called the bouncers." I think we're both starting to have fun with this conversation.

"The hostages at 126th and Maple, there's kids there Parker, some younger than nine."

I have no quick, witty, semi-sarcastic reply to that. She waits. I wait. We both know the gears are turning in my head. "Innocence," we both say together. About fifteen years apart in age, and I have more in common with this college intern than I did with my ex-wife. Saving the lyrics, I call up Mapquest on my notebook to locate that intersection and see how far away from the Terrace it is.

Carrie tells me, "You can stop this from being splattered across the eleven o'clock news and make it into a memory that these kids can just let recede into the background of their lives."

The gears are still turning in my head

"Parker, police scanner reports that the SWAT team is rolling." Now she's serious.

"Okay. I've got a fix on the location. It's not far. Let me check the prevailing winds around here and run some numbers- -"

"Numbers, hell, Parker!" there's urgency in Carrie's voice now. "You can't wait for those kids to get caught between the dancing, pirouetting, nutcases with Kalashnikovs and the ones with helmets, shields, and AR-15s."

"You're right, of course." The winds will work out for me; they have to. "Stay with me, Carrie. I need info."

I switch my notebook into phone mode and stow it. Raising a finger, I check the wind. Then I squat down to pick up the parachute that looks like a book bag. Stepping up onto the ledge, I hear gasps and turn to face the others gathered at The Terrace. I put on my goggles and helmet, and I hold up the parachute. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am the frontman, publicist and lead singer song-writer for the band Extreme Dreams and this, my friends, is a parachute." I don the parachute, cinching the straps around my legs and buckling the buckles across my chest and around my shoulders. I walk back for a running start and with a bow say, "Kids, don't try this at home." Then I dash up to the ledge and take a flying leap, right off the side of the ninety-eighth floor.

I want to scream with exhilaration, but can't because I'm busy preparing my chute to deploy. I have my back arched and my arms and legs stretched out behind me. I'm holding the mini-chute in my left hand. _I'm trying to get a little velocity here, but I can't trade too much altitude, because I have just exhausted my second and a half to release this minichute which is right now pulling open my main chute … This is the clunky part. _The chute jerks me back into the harness as it opens fully. I grab the steering cords and test them. I have full control.

Mapquest scrolls by in heads up display mode in my left eye. My laptop is also whispering to me as I glide down the street; it's calling off altitude and distance from the target as well as naming off the streets and land marks as I pass them. I work my guide cables, steering myself and controlling my descent. "Okay, Carrie. Fill me in here. What am I up against?" My laptop whispers that Carrie has put me on hold and do I want to here the hold music from the Herald? I tell it no. Actually she picked a good time to go on another call. I've got to set up a turn here. I work my cables and swing wide to the right like an eighteen wheeler making a left turn.

"Parker are you there?" Carrie asks, a touch of concern in her tone.

"Hold on Carrie." I'm on Maple now. Only a few more blocks to go. Streetlight coming up, hello. I let a puff of air out from both sides of my canopy, so that instead of turning, I just drop a few feet. I glide right under it.

"Okay Carrie, I can see the police cordon up ahead. What am I up against? Tell me about the perps."

"My man on the scene - -"

"Just answer my questions."

"Yes, sir. Three perps."

"Armed?"

"Kalashnikovs. One each."

"How are the perps acting?"

"They looked drunk or stoned. They were dancing, twirling pirouettes with their weapons, like they thought it was fun or something."

"How many hostages?"

"Not sure."

"Tell me about the building and what unit they're in."

"Four story brownstone. Fire escapes in the allies on either side. They're on the second floor, in the right hand unit as scene from the street."

"Thank you, Carrie. Please stay on the line. I'll call your name if I need you."

I check my belt to see if, by some miracle, I packed a grapple or any deceleration cable. I didn't. I guess I'll just take down the perps and get the hostages out the old fashioned way.

I hope there are no trees in the way. I'm coming up on the building. Three blocks. I swing wide to the left side of the street. Two blocks; I'm shedding altitude fast. No tree in the way. I hope they're in the front room. What were the keys Wayne used to tell me about…"theatricality and deception, misdirection and dramatic entrance; the best entrances involve shattering glass."

I can see them through the window, perps and hostages. _This will make a very dramatic entrance. _I grab the risers and swing both my legs up straight out in front of me and turn my head to the side putting my helmet in the lead. My boots shatter the front picture window inside as I flip the release clips on my chute. The air catches the chute away outside the window while I do my best to execute a sideways parachute landing fall, just like I learned at Fort Benning. Momentum carries me across the room while I knock over a plant and crack some sheetrock. No broken bones. Gunshots ring out and bullet holes trace across the room to the left and right of the window, as the glass I left behind shatters outside.

_Now I know where the bad guys are._ I duck behind a sofa while I pull out my blow gun and darts. _That can't hit what they can't see, right? _I pop up and down. Two darts zip across the room. Bullets strike the wall over my head. I hear two thunks as two perps pass out and fall to the floor. I listen for the nervous breathing of the last perp. What I hear is the sound of footsteps dashing across the room at me. I pop up, and zing him with a blow dart as he charges me.

He collapses to the floor in midstride.

Now, I can survey the scene properly. Police Commissioner Ellen Yendle's husband lies slumped against a wall bleeding, going into shock. He's evidently tried to be a hero. Their son has rendered first aid like a good Cub Scout. Now he is comforting his sister. I reassure the kids and heft their dad up in my arms. He needed medical attention twenty minutes ago when I was on the phone with Carrie. "Carrie, do you know where the ambulances are?" A young voice in the room says, "Huh?"

"I'm on the phone." I say

"No," Carrie replies in my ear, "But I can see on News One that police are forming up in front of the main entrance, Thompson says the cameras won't see you in the alley."

"Thanks, I'll take the fire escape. Bye."

I heft the bleeding father of two and husband of the Commissioner up into a fireman's carry over my shoulder to get his weight off my arms and better situated on my back. I cross the room while shifting him. I walk through the kitchen to the fire escape door. I carry him out onto the landing of the fire escape. I carry him stumbling down the fire escape three steps at a time without dropping him and yell for the paramedics.

EMTs rush over with a stretcher, and I lay the man I'm carrying down so they can do their job. Some uniformed police with hand guns and flashlights extended and crossed have escorted the EMTs. I stand very still.

Suddenly, the doors on the SWAT van burst open at the end of the alley, and that elite team begins to deploy out in two columns, setting shields, moving up, covering each other with overlapping fields of fire. One squad breaks off and files into the alley yelling at me, the EMTs, the uniforms. I raise my hands, palms open and facing forward. Without my gas powered magnetic grapple gun and explosive powders, I have no easy escape. I'll have to play this out.

The leader of the uniforms says something to his Captain over the radio that I can't make completely make out.

Two of the uniforms turn and level their weapons at the SWAT officers. More yelling comes from the SWAT officers as they block the EMTs. The rescue squad just wants to get the patient to the ambulance: the Commissioner's husband is in the process of dying here. They need their gear to save him

I see a plain clothes cop with years of service etched in the lines of his face enter the alley. He wears a trench coat with a captain's badge clipped into the front pocket and an American flag pen on the lapel. The Captain lifts a bullhorn up to his mouth with left hand. He calls out in a command voice, "Police Officers! Stand down here! The perps are up there," he points up toward the second floor apartment. "Let the rescue squad pass with the Commissioner's husband and for crying out loud get those press vultures back another hundred feet."

The Captain and I locked eyes. We nodded understanding and some uniforms dashed off to push the press back. Perhaps I had an ally here. "The perps?" he asks simply.

"Thoroughly unconscious."

"How many?"

"Three."

"How long to take them?"

"About 146 seconds, give or take."

"You must be Parker."

I nod.

"Hell of thing you just did."

Carrie. Thank Heaven for Carrie.

"Save my parachute, would you?"

He nods. "You can sign for it down at the 19th Precinct in a couple days."

He gestures for me to give him a moment, stows the bullhorn under one arm, and grabs his radio. I turn and make my way up the alley away from the scene. "All SWAT Officers stand down and return to base." I hear it echo out of every cop car on the street. "Perps are down. This is Captain Carlisle, incident commander. I say again all SWAT Officers stand down and return to base."

Carlisle lets me go. It's not as dramatic as crashing through that window, but as an exit, it's theatrical enough for me.

My padd rings as I walk down the alley. The ring tone is the one reserved for my ex-wife. I wonder if Thompson would trade me an anonymous ride home for an exclusive on my story tonight, also anonymous. Of course.

"Oh, my gawd, Parker. I'm watching News One. Some guy just crashed thru a window in a parachute. Was that you? Then a bunch of medics and cops and SWAT guys ran down an alley. Are you in that alley? Are you risking your life? I put up with your base jumping. But if you engage in vigilante crap like this, I swear Parker, I can't let you put your son in danger with behavior like that. Join the police if you have to keep saving the world. Or get yourself one of those rings. Like that Space Cop guy."

"I'm a musician now, Brittany.

"Oh, pu-lease. Next you'll be telling me you inherited a million dollars from the Wayne family."

Actually…

"Look, If you need an extra day to get the child support payment to me, you just have to ask. No need for a sob story about being a musician."

"For real, Britty. I wrote a song tonight, but it sounds like you're watching some fine television."

"My gawd Parker, the medics are loading a man into an ambulance. I guess he can't be you since I'm talking to you."

"That's right Britty. Can I speak to my son?"

"Okay, okay, just a minute, I called you, remember?"

"Hi, Dad," says my son.

"Hey, there Kyle," I say. "How was school?'

"Okay, I'm doing just like you taught me in math, Dad. My teachers give me lots of stars. I'm in my room now. I closed the door."

"Good man."

"Dad, that was you, you saved that man, didn't you."

"Yes, son I did, but not very many people know that."

"I love you Dad."

"Right back at you, son. See you Friday."

"Right, Dad, Friday. Can we fly in a helicopter this weekend?"

"I'll have to talk with my producer at the radio station. We'll see. Maybe a helicopter ride back to school on Monday, while John Taylor does the traffic."

"That would be soooo cool. My friends will love it and I can even tell mom about that, right?"

"Yes, you sure can."

"Okay, Daddy. I have to go. Mom's calling me for my bath."

"Goodbye son. Remember to say your Schema before bed tonight."

"I always do, Dad, just like you taught me."

"Good man, now go on. Go get clean."

"Bye, Dad."

"Goodbye son, I love you."


End file.
